[AW] A Heated Tide

[Káin]

eyes bowleg, lookin' crooked in the face A wanderer? Is that what the Son had become? In all the time he has spent outside of Miskolc, has he shed his title of áldott herceg? He concludes that no, he was still the beloved and the blessed, he was still the Son, holy and gifted by gods themselves. He did not choose asylum, this was not his asylum. He did not need to be protected, he did not need to be taken in because he was running away; this was simply a temporary home, a place to rest his head while he planned out his next steps. He would not bury his roots in the burning red sand beneath his hooves, he was not a man to settle so easily. He watches closely the way the strangers react to him, stepping forth into their conversation without so much as a greeting, weaving his own words seamlessly into theirs. The woman seems curious, head tilted as though she were a dog, trying to understand better what he desired from this interaction. "No need to get so upset." He hums, innocent but conniving, speaking so casually that he's almost convinced himself it's no matter getting worked up over. "It's simply a matter of words - I am not as familiar with your common tongue and the way you use your words, but bolondok háza, your asylum, means house of fools to me. Menedék would be more fitting - shelter, for this does not look much like a house of fools. But then again, menedék could also mean asylum. It all depends on how you look at it." He shrugs it off, the Son careless about the explanation. Perhaps they would understand him, perhaps they wouldn't. His tongue was far more difficult to translate into the common language, many of his words could be twisted with a simple mispronunciation, accenting one wrong letter could bring a whole new meaning to the word. He could understand if the two were confused and simply ignored his explanation, he would too if a stranger started babbling nonsense to him. Unfortunately for them, he was in a rather playful mood today. And now the woman was defensive, scared because she had missed the Son's presence, had not picked up the smells that clung to him or heard the quiet steps he took. He smiles, grinning at Vanora as her unease becomes obvious to him. He could almost taste the anxiety oozing from her pores, her chin high as if prideful and courageous, but her step backward tells him otherwise. He has seen this same dance acted out by hundreds of men, cowering in the face of the unknown. His father frequently questioned prisoners of war with his dragons at his sides, both creatures as threatening as the king himself. Even Káin himself had taken the spotlight, had questioned men with morally grey tactics, with fear and manipulation and silver threads hanging from his lips. And every time, he would see faux pride in the trembling men, eyes wide but heads held high as if they were still trying to cling to their dignity. He shrugs carelessly at her question, smirk only growing more mischievous. "I simply do what I want. Sometimes I find that walking among the shadows provides me with more answers than carelessly frolicking in the sunshine." Satisfied, egér? Now he coos, pleased (although not truly) to hear that he is not the only one within these lands by the name of Cain. And of course, his name was not quite pronounced the same, but nonetheless he was entertained. "What a coincidence - call me Káin." He looks to Vanora, expression unwavering, playful words almost taunting as he speaks. "Afraid of me still, Kisegér?" -- @Vanora @Caine sorry this took so long!!!!!!! also káin is calling vanora "little mouse" despite them being the same height :')